Cast Back
by bluesheepy
Summary: Now in 1932, Nick owns a ranch, however a surprise visitor may just cause some changes in this new world. Just a weird idea I had..
1. Chapter 1

**Just an idea that came into my head...May or may not continue it. **

**I do not own Gatsby, it belongs to Fitzgerald.**

**I only own this writing and the character, Angelo.**

If I had not been dwelling on the past that afternoon, then I hold a strong, illogical belief that it would not have happened. Unusually, my mind had drifted back to the bond selling days, a memory I now defined as a ray of sunlight cut up and obscured by unfriendly shadows. Wandering down the roads of the past has always evoked a sense of sadness in me, so I rarely allow myself to do so. But that afternoon, I sense I had to, to cast myself back to accept the present events.

It was a chance meeting with an elderly man that led me here. From the glamour of another New York Summer to the hard beaten dust roads of rural California, it was a journey made without thought, just a sense of escape and a desire to have something of my own. It turned out to be a wise decision as a decade of frivolity collapsed on its self and I alone seemed immune to a widespread depression. It was a ranch I bought, you see, and though as we grow older we lose our love for an uncontrollable party, we never lose the need for food.

As bond selling fell to pieces and a glamorous mask eroded, I felt as though life was finally beginning again. It had been on hold since 1922, but finally the seasons were changing.

Over the past few years, I have affirmed something I learnt that Summer. Personality is a series of unbroken successful gestures and the men who are happiest know this. Men sift through here like sand through a sieve, but the hard workers who linger and persevere are the ones who can smile. There is nothing more rewarding than a man entering with a polite handshake and offering his services as opposed to one entering with a frown and demanding work. The former are strong, the latter are vulnerable in this new decade.

The ability to reserve judgement is still something I value highly. Class nor colour nor appearance defines a man and I have come to realise that those who have already seen hardship are often more pleasant. Those who have sprung straight from the casual twenties to the tight lipped thirties struggle to be agreeable.

As I dwelled on this, I must have heard the gate to the yard creak open faintly, for a moment letter there were voices that cast me from my thoughts.

'Hello there, I wish to see your boss.' There was something familiar in the voice, but I could not help but think it was oddly jarring.

'Who's to say that I ain't the boss round here?'

'Well, I-'

'Oh, nah, I jus' jokin' with us, sure I'll take you to him right now.'

I sat up as their footsteps crossed the yard and a gentle knocking reached my door. 'Mr Carraway, this man jus' come.'

'Bring him in, Angelo.'

The negro boy did so, careful to close the door behind him as he led the man up the stairs.

'This way sir, good afternoon, Mr Carraway, I jus' been fixin' that machine of yours, but now this guy has come.'

'Than-' I faltered for the stranger had stepped into the room. A smile, one that warped the whole world away as it demanded your attention was fixed on me and every word seemed to have escaped mind. It seemed to shine artificially in the dull room, but it was so genuine that I had no idea what to think.

Here stood a man, a miraculous one who had not only learnt to cling onto the past, but had also seemingly beaten death and halted the aging process. There was something so unchanged about him that for a moment I wondered as to whether it was me who was out of time, caught in the wrong place.

'Mr Carraway?' Angelo started, but the man stepped forward, the smile still on his face.

'Hello, old sport.'

'Gatsby.'


	2. Chapter 2

'Angelo, why don't you go and see if you can get that clock working?' I glanced quickly at the negro, then back to Gatsby.

'No I ain't so sure, Mr Carraway, this fella jus walk right on in like he own the place- I ain't so sure I trust 'im, sir,' the man folded his arms and it suddenly occured to me that this dusty land had a very limited color palette. It was awash with faded browns, matte whites and a frugal splash of yellow. Then, into this dull picture had wandered Gatsby, a man who in my head was a shade of polished gold and an artificial blue. It was, quite literally, as if he had walked from one decade to another, no winding paths just a small bridge that brought the twenties to the thirties with an uncomfortable ease.

'It's quite alright Angelo, I've known-knew this man a long time ago.'

'Eleven years this August,' Gatsby murmured faintly, turning a button on his jacket between his fingers.

'I still-'

'Angelo,' I began sharply, but he nodded, quietly stepping out and shutting the door.

Outside, the sun was still high in the sky, an overclose warmth clinging to my skin. For a moment, I wondered if the weather was being sentimental perhaps, casting us back to a similar day which had marked the end of a long ago summer. Then I turned back to Gatsby, who quickly caught my eye.

'I suppose you have a lot of questions, old sport,' he began, speaking softly as if dealing with the delicate heart of someone once loved.

'Questions?' I cut across him 'No, I wouldn't say questions, in was thinking more of demanding an explanation.'

'Old sport-' he nodded slowly, gesturing towards a chair in the corner of the room. I too nodded, and he drew it close, sinking down to eye level.

'I'd like to first apologize for any-'

'We buried you, you were in the ground. I saw you. I sat by your body for days in that house.'

He attempted a pitiful smile, but there was a lost sadness in his eyes that I had only remembered months after that Summer.

'Look old- Nick, let me explain, please.'

I took a deep breath, but settled down, ignoring the creeping sensation of the heat on my back and the tightly wound anger in my fists.

'One of Wolfsheim' s men arrived soon after you left that morning -he said nothing and so I though little of it, deciding, as I said I would, to make use of the pool. I'd been floating for an hour- and believe when I say it old sport, I was feeling quite sick of it all- and that was when he arrived. Wilson, with the gun. I tried to talk to him but Wolfsheim' s man was already there, and he shot him in the head, right there,' Gatsby pointed to his temple 'then he asked me how long I could hold my breath, before instructing I get down underwater whilst he 'finished the job'. I did so, old sport and you know the rest from there.'

'I heard the shot. I saw you dead.'

'He shot at nothing. And you were wild Nick, you saw what you believed. Anyhow, it was all orchestrated. Everyone had to believe it for it to succeed. I was driven away and a few weeks later I was on my way to England.'

'What about the body? That was you, I know it was you.'

'You were drunk Nick, you wouldn't remember. Anyway, did you really believe Wolfsheim would miss my funeral?' He smiled lightly at this and for some reason, this riled me and I was on my feet, pacing behind my desk.

'I was angry for you, I grieved Gatsby and they told me I needed help. I thought I owed it to you somehow, but it was all for what? So you could prance about in England whilst I- what were you doing in England?' I came to a halt beside the window, watching as two men stopped to talk and sip at cold water. You learnt pretty soon out here that anger only fed your problems.

'Bad business, very bad business.'

'What kind of bad business?' I enquired.

'Bad, just very bad- look old sport, it's left me with nothing- and nobody.'

'I see. How did you find me?'

'It was difficult, Nick, but I followed what you had left behind.'

I was about to question this too, but he was smiling, that captivating smile that choked down words and demanded you to do his will somehow.

'Why are you here though?'

'Why, old sport,' he grinned mysteriously 'Why, to show you that you can repeat the past.'

It was that, I suppose, and just how far from the past we were or perhaps it was the strange twinkle in his eyes that started it.

Laughter suddenly gurgled unpleasantly from my mouth, as if I was vomiting it up, unable to stop myself. Huge echoes of the horrendous sound spewed from my mouth until I was shuddering and I realized they were no longer chuckles, but wretched sobs.


	3. Chapter 3

I'm** so sorry for such the long wait. I've been really busy with exams so.I didn't have much time :( thank you for all the kudos though and for being patient. Here's the next chapter!**

I turned away from Gatsby, clasping on to the desk for support. I could feel his presence, looming and shifting, unsure of what to do. This was unplanned, a deceitful nightmare not those smooth, easy dreams he lives by.

'Nick?' he stammered slightly, taking an awkward step forwards. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw him reach out with his hand then hesitantly draw it back. He repeated this action several times before his hand finally came to rest on my shoulder.

It was not that impersonal grip I had felt on the night of that first party, but something firm and real.

'Nick?' He questioned again, and I turned, attempting a smile as I saw his concerned face. There was still an element of childness in it that made it difficult to upset it for too long.

'Sorry, that was...'

'No, no, old sport. I, I just never realized that anyone would be so affected by my.. death.'

'Damn, Gatsby. I could hardly get over it. Nothing looked the same you know, it was all too gaudy, too..I don't know. I even wrote about it, pages and pages.'

I stopped myself quickly, catching my tongue. The dusty manuscript was in a box now, slotted beneath my bed. It would be lying to suggest I hadn't touched it since, rather, there were lonely moments when only the past seemed to hold a friend.

'I didn't know you were a writer.' Gatsby said after a moment.

'No, I don't suppose it ever came up.'

'Come to think of it, I hardly knew anything about you.'

' None of us did.

'About anyone. No, we didn't, did we.' Gatbsy looked up to the peeling paint work of the ceilings 'sometimes it felt as though I was at masked ball, not just a big party.'

'When I left, after you had... I wanted everything to be in uniform, easy to identify, no secrets, no twists. Somehow I found my way here - there's nothing glamorous or artificial about this. It's terrible and I can see that.'

' So you like it here?' Gatsby frowned softly, confusion sparkling in those eyes.

'Careless people don't last long here. They move on. They don't prey or linger like they did in New York. There's nothing pretentious or false. It's grim and I can get on with it.'

'I never did understand it, Nick.' He looked at me intently 'I was given the impression your family was wealthy, yet you chose to be poor.'

This of course, was an exaggeration. I was never poor, rather I chose to work to explode the idea that I was incapable or lazy. It was, I suppose, about not making judgements, removing my advances in a weak attempt to be humble.

Being honest and refraining from judgement, however is something I have simply prided myself in saying. When I left the East, I realised it was precisely what I had done. With every page I wrote, each lavish detail and bitter comment, I had discovered that I'd swallowed my own words and had forgotten about them. It had become a label I applied to somehow reassure and advertise myself, a weak phrase , a painted mask.

My name is Nick and I am honest. My name is Gatsby, I collected rubies and fought in the war. My name is Jordan, I play golf. That silly sentence we use to define ourselves was all it was.

I suppose it was loneliness too that made me judgemental. Within and without is a solo affair, entangled but rejected. I watched and I noted as it was all I could do.

'I needed to do something. I couldn't just watch any more.'

Gatsby smiled strangely all of a sudden. 'We can alter the past'

'What are you..'

'The past Nick, the past. A party,' he was beaming 'something to make people smile because they're so sad here.'

At this, I frowned. This wasn't the age when people smiled because they were sad and false. It was an age where people smiled because they had nothing to be happy about but weren't sad either. They smiled because there was no other option.

'Gatsby, you know we can't repeat the past.'

'Why old sport, of course we can,' he chuckled, recalling a conversation from all those summer's ago. Then, the smile dropped and he looked at me imploringly 'please, Nick. It's been a long time, a difficult long time. I need...I need something that's familiar.'

It was always difficult to say no to Gatsby, so I swallowed and sighed ' but who's going to come to a party round here?'

Gatsby grinned 'they'll come by the hundreds.'


End file.
